


The Loss

by cringe_town



Series: s/c/p stuff [2]
Category: Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, References to Depression, inspired by "the loss" by hollywood undead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:41:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22410457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cringe_town/pseuds/cringe_town
Summary: Paul shuts himself away. Does anybody even notice?akaSelf-reflection... What a way to go!
Relationships: Paul Gray/Craig Jones
Series: s/c/p stuff [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660681
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	The Loss

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a vent fic because ive been imobilized by mental illness
> 
> this is in first person pov,, so yeehaw

I can feel my skin decaying. It falls away, only to be replaced by new flesh. Why? Why continue a cycle that just repeats, like a cruel children's game? There is no point to the constant making of cells. They're just going to die again and again and again. I can feel them sticking to me. It makes my clothes feel vaguely incorrect. 

The world around me feels as if it's going sideways. My bed tilts but nothing in my sight moves. Then again, it's getting dark. The blinds are closed and the curtains drawn shut. The semi-darkness calms me as long as I don't think about it. But my only choices are to think. I can feel my thoughts almost as much as I can hear them in my head. There are ghouls living inside my brain. 

Everything is floating. Only, this is a bad kind of floating. There's too much weight and it's a matter of minutes before things start to sink. I'm running on borrowed time. 

My bones feel hollow and full of lead. I can't move, but if I lay still for too long I fear that I'll never move again. This is the only thought grounding me currently. It keeps me from going too far into the darkness. I never liked having to fight myself in order to survive the day. It's tiring, and I can feel my body breaking with each attempt to not die. What's the point in not dying when I already feel dead? Glass bones and paper skin are qualities of a dead man. I am already a corpse. 

I can hear my own hunger more than I can feel it. Just like my bones, my stomach is hollow. Hollow, hollow hollow. Such a morose word. It's just a word. Why does it infer such dread no matter what context its used in? Why do any words have the connotations they do? These are questions that have haunted me for years, yet I still don't know the answers. Then again, a question holds an unexplainable power up until the very moment it is answered. There is no such thing as a response better than the foreword. 

I turn my head to the side and it is now that I realize that I've been laying in the same spot for almost ten hours. I sigh heavily, hoping the slight movement will help with the dull ache deep inside my bones. I know that breathing will not save me from my discomfort. It was worth the try, and for a moment, I have hope that it worked. I settle again and the ache returns. It is not a physical pain that mocks me now. It is the torturous knowledge of how fucked this is. How stupid I am for letting the worst in me get the better of myself to cower like a fucking dog.

My skin stings badly. I know why, so I don't try to soothe it. Touching will only make it hurt more. Which, I don't think I'd necessarily mind too much. More pain never hurt anyone, right? The possibility of that assumption being wrong keeps me from running my fingers along the red all over me. The red covers my arms, legs, and torso like a flood - thick and _everywhere_. I don't care enough to try and stop my blood from soaking into my bedsheets. Whoever finds me can clean up the mess. 

My vision has gone blurry, but like the blood, I don't care. I can't find it in myself to care. Who gives a rats ass about anything? It's not going to matter in ten years time who I am, what I've done, what I regret not doing... I ponder my regrets for a moment. Most include Craig, half of them are not telling him how I feel. Or felt, seeing as I am as good as dead. I don't think that there's any going back now, or coming out of this alive, even. 

Craig is an enigma in and of himself. He doesn't talk unless he deems it absolutely necessary. Only, necessary for him ranges from threatening to kill people to explaining in a soft voice how a sampler board works to the lesser beings of the human species we call our bandmates. How Craig decided to settle with eight idiots for a career instead of an actual job will always confuse me. He's such a smart guy, and yet he refuses to do something other than Slipknot. There's a method to his madness somewhere, I just haven't found it. Maybe that's why I'm so drawn to him. He's like a difficult puzzle that you feel like you need to piece together but probably never will. 

I'm starting to feel lightheaded. I can hear everything going on. Past, present, and future blend together and, for a moment, everything is beautiful. I cry, not really knowing why but understanding that it's important that I get it out now or else I never will. There's a loud noise echoing around my head that almost ruins the moment. The noise dims, but the beauty of the world around me doesn't fade. I can see the universe in these ugly, tan walls surrounding me. I try to lift my arms, possibly to try and touch the serenity in the dullness of it all, but I cannot move. I fight to keep my eyes open. I just want to see the bright side, one last time. It's all beautiful. All I can see is blue. Water, sky, paint, eyes. Craig's eyes are so blue. So, so blue.

Then, it's gone. The Earth is silent and the beauty is gone. The last remnants of _me_ are removed and it all goes black. 


End file.
